A D R I A N
The clinic sparkles. Too much.
Chrome-edged carts line the halls. The vitals monitors beep in perfect rhythm like a symphony I paid for. New oxygen tanks gleam behind glass. The supply room smells like sterile plastic and freshly printed inventory tags.
Even the scrubs are new. Slate gray with deep blue piping. Embroidered on every chest in silver thread: Valcrosse Med, Isla Seraphine Division. As if branding could stand in for penance.
It’s overkill. I know it. Every time I pass another shining cabinet, I feel it. But I won't stop. Because this is what I know how to do: fix with precision, flood the cracks with money, control what can be seen. I can't rewind the cave. I can't erase the look on her face when she said they were going to ruin her. But I can make sure this pla
